we can, and we should, write about the sun. we can write about how sweet and hot it is in august when the pavement is boiling, when we're freckled and drunk on summertime and the grass is still green. we can write about picnics and first kisses and new puppies and young love. we can take photos of homemade lunches and drink mimosas and hold each other tightly and whisper about how happy we are.
and we should.
because these are the things we'll remember when the impossible happens. when the day that was just a wednesday becomes a day we count up from and down to, a date, an anniversary.
there are few forces as compelling, as persuasive as this. sorrow is all-encompassing: it does not ask permission, does not exchange pleasantries, does not wait for the door to be answered. it coils itself around bodies and breathes down necks. it stretches and tears and pulls. sorrow insists. there is no misunderstanding or negotiating, there is no plan b, and as i sit here trying to write about jamie, a young woman i hadn't spoken to in years, i wish i could write about the sun. i wish i could write about wednesday and how it was warm and wonderful. i wish i could write about how jamie and her brand new husband got into their car and drove to their home in philadelphia and made dinner together. how their lives continued to run parallel to mine with no intersection, no cause for a sudden left turn.
we can, and we should, write about the sun. and we should write about jamie, too. so that we won't forget. so that we'll always remember.